


Death on the River Severn

by SketchLockwood



Category: 15th Century CE RPF, The Sunne in Splendour - Sharon Kay Penman, The White Queen (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-16
Updated: 2016-01-16
Packaged: 2018-05-14 07:05:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5734126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SketchLockwood/pseuds/SketchLockwood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the aftermath of the battle of tewkesbury. At Tewkesbury Abbey, Margeurite is forced to confront her enemies and learn of the devastating losses and witnesses some</p>
            </blockquote>





	Death on the River Severn

Tewkesbury Abbey, 1471.

She fell hard upon her knees, sinking deep into thick mud. Her head bowed, hands bound. She stared at the mans boots with the deepest, coldest contempt. Of course she knew what would face her. What must face her. He would not, could not let her live. No, she was no fool. Knew he too was far from a simpleton. She had watched in silent horror as soon after his silent retreat at the abbots request, and in aid of several words so carefully whispered in his ear, York had himself committed sacrilege. He had single handedly dragged each man from the abbey, slaughtering many and sparing few. He had seen consecrated land decimated. He had caused such chaotic sin. Her only comfort as she knew she knelt in the blood of her favourites and confidants was that this man, this monster would burn in hell for his sin. She could only hope that he dispatch her to her god in a speedy and dignified manner. 

She gulped as she saw more boots join the pursuit. Then her heart stopped, those stumbling boots she suddenly recognised. She looked up as her son was brought into the strong arms of her undisputed enemy. "Pl-" She was silenced by the hand, a hand she knew would have been from the so called Duke of Gloucester before the young mans brother pursed his lips and spoke. 

"Richard, please. Give the lady chance to speak."

"She doesn't deserve such a chance." Marguerite heard hatred in his voice. A hatred stronger than she had thought possible. 

"I will decide that brother." Yorks voice was terse, lacking in patience of mercy. "Continue my lady." The formality she knew was almost insulting. The infliction in his voice. His use of perfect French. It was all to make mockery of her and this most unfortunate position. As though being held captive by York were not enough...

She looked to her son, seeing his darling eyes alight. Alight with fear, with anger, with a optimistic though naive hope. It seemed she knew more than he. For whilst the boy believed that he may be allowed to live, she knew that he would lose his life this day. She had however lived in hope that he would already be lost to her. Not dangled before her like a steak to a dog. Was she a toy, and this a game? 

"Merci monsieur." Richard nudged her, she knew why. "Your grace." She bit her tongue, hated herself. Was she truly submitting to this foul brat? She saw her sons face, wanted to shout out to stop him as he spat in insult at his captor. An action which earned him a hard, steel clad punch to the stomach from the very same man. A blow which sent him crumpled to his knees. Dragged up by Yorks strong hands. 

"Do not think that is the worst that will come to you." She heard the usurpers words above her sons sobs. 

"Please, please no-" Her sweet Edouards words were stopped by the dagger by his throat. 

"Madam, I suggest you finish your plea with speed. Else my hand may be like to slip." This time, his words were in perfect English. 

"Spare him, take me. Please I beg you."

"Who says I ever intended to allow you to live? How can you bargain am exchange if there is naught to trade madam?"

Tears left her eyes freely for the first time in so many years. She did not care. What pride was there left to lose? Was she expected to care? 

"Take the girl. Please." Marguerite muttered. "Anyone but my sweet Edouard. He is a child. He is an innocent! Would you have his blood on your hands?"

"She is not yours to give!" Richards voice was full of emotion as roughly he grabbed her hair, pulling her up. 

"Dickon! For the love of God control yourself!" His brothers voice matched his eyes. Dark, but amused. She felt sick. He truly was enjoying this, it truly was a game. She saw his smirk as her son squirmed against him, desperate to get away. A simple movement locked him still. "Do not squirm. You are a prince are you not? Take this as a king should." 

"Please." She screeched the word as the blade dug, paralysing her sons attempted struggles. She saw Clarence's amused grin, felt Gloucesters hand tighten. Forcing her to watch. She stilled, panic filling her. 

"I cannot madam. Whether I'd like to or not-"

"Ned, you cannot surely consider it?" Richard hissed. 

"Hold your tongue Richard! I might have mind to remove it if you do not cease your senseless interruptions!" She saw blood draw on the end of the blade, heard her sons whimpers. She saw as the Yorkist brat looked at her Edouard, her sweet prince, with a ice cold hatred. "Madam you shall be escorted to the tower. As for Anne Neville? She is the innocent victim to your plotting, your manipulation. She shall be my ward, and hence forth a widow." 

She watched, too emotional to speak, to plead a cause dead long ago at Wakefield. She knew this to him was more than simple inheritance, more than monarchy or battle. This was no war in that moment she knew. This was final, sickly cold revenge. She felt the cold envelope her as with a swift movement he drew the blade across her sons throat, dropping his limp figure on the ground. She sobbed as he cleanly stepped over the child's body, pausing only to look back.


End file.
